The Honorable Marksley (21 page)

With deliberation, she moved toward the one closest to her, prepared to discover Marksley and George
Partridge imprisoned inside. But as she neared it, a
gypsy woman cradling a baby in her arms stepped forward to the bench seat. Hallie could see that the interior of the wagon did not shelter any other occupants. As
the woman cooed softly to the child and started to sing,
Hallie slipped away in the wagon’s shadow, toward the
next. A dog began to bark. For a few seconds Hallie
froze, thinking it must have seen her or heard the
rustling of leaves as she walked. But the animal was
quickly silenced and she carefully moved on.

Before the lamp in the next wagon, two elderly men
hunched over a checkerboard. The scent of their pipe
smoke hung pleasantly in the air. As Hallie backed
away, she reflected that none of the activities in the
camp struck her as suspicious in any way. Indeed, given
the humble circumstances of its inhabitants, she had
increasing doubts. Augusta Lawes’ charges against them
seemed most implausible. She felt very much the
intruder here in this picturesque little community. These
people were harmless-they may even have aided a
friend. She could see no evidence of any dispute, of the
recent fisticuffs that had injured George.

A burst of laughter from the men at their play temporarily halted her steps, but as one of them left the
group to take up a fiddle, the music offered a welcome
distraction. The haunting strains of the violin mingled
with the fires and moonlight in intoxicating combination. For a moment Hallie paused, her senses unexpectedly alive. But she was close to the last wagon.

As she peered in the open back, she saw George
Partridge resting in the lamplight, a dirty cloth tied
about his balding head and one arm bound in a
makeshift sling. His spectacles were askew upon his
thin nose, but his eyes were open and bright as he
watched Marksley kneeling to blanket him with a
heavy traveling cloak.

“I should never have guessed, Partridge,” Richard
was saying with some amusement, “that you were capable of such adventures. Though I suppose, in the role of
Beecham-”

The casualty smiled wanly as Richard reached to
straighten his spectacles for him. But George’s eyes
widened in surprise when he caught sight of Hallie at
the entrance.

“I never thought … to see you two … together,” he
managed faintly.

Even as Richard spun around, Hallie heard a step
behind her.

“Gorgio shunella!” a high voice shrieked and bony
fingers clutched at her blanket. She heard Richard’s
sharp “No!” before something struck her.

Richard repeatedly relived the events of that night: the
lunge to catch Hallie as she fell, the dismay of the gypsy
granny who had coshed a slight female instead of a
looming, blanketed “listener,” the endless, panicked wait
for the carriage, the mad dash at midnight back to
Archers and the doctor. Two invalids at once were almost
more than that poor physician could handle. George
Partridge, who had indeed merely witnessed a battle
between Romeos, had been promptly patched up and
sent along to London the next morning. But now, even
after another full day, Hallie still lay in this unmoving
state. The cold night air and resulting fever had felled her
as surely as that ill-judged blow to the head.

Richard had remained sleepless. Even the longsought discovery of Henry Beecham’s identity had not
eased his mind.

Oh, George Partridge had admitted to nothing. And
he had said almost as little. Despite holding Beecham’s
letters, the linguist had been even more taciturn than
usual. When taxed about his role as the secretive poet,
he had silently demurred, shaking his head and
expressing only sincere concern for Hallie’s health.

Richard had not pressed him, for George had been
nursing a sprained wrist and a devil of a headache, and
his concern for Hallie had been justified. Yet there was
no recourse beyond patience. So Richard could only sit,
powerless, at her bedside. He knew he must leave her
shortly to the careful ministrations of Mrs. Hepple and
the maids. But her sweet, still features and her lustrous
hair, spread against the pillow, kept him watchfully
present.

He had been callous and ungracious, only to discover with each passing day how sensitive and honest she
was. He would find some way to make amends for all
the indignities she had suffered at the hands of the
Marksley family-at his hands.

He ran a weary palm over his whiskered cheeks. He
might start by ridding himself of his beard, lest Hallie
wake and quail at the sight of him. At least the task
would move him to concentrate on preparing for her
return to this world, rather than her demise. That possibility did not bear thought.

He lowered both booted feet to the floor, but as he
rose to leave his tired gaze fell upon the journal she
kept at her bedside.

He had noticed the familiar volume throughout the doctor’s visits and the careful attentions of the household staff, but he had been too distraught to focus upon
it. In any event, he had never been alone. He had not
been tempted. Now he was both.

He reached for the book and stood by the bed, at first
only admiring the neat hand in the candlelight, thinking
that the script suited her. But something about it invited more than passing interest.

The first dated entry was from almost five months
before, so she had written a considerable amount. It
was a fat volume, with several loose pages tucked
among the bindings. He smiled for a moment, remembering her excessive desire the other day to have the
journal returned to her care. Young people, he reflected,
were possessive of their secrets, so predictably selfconscious. Once he started to read, however, such
thoughts fled his mind.

He read rapidly, hungrily, silently repeating certain
lines and phrases, noting the fragments of poetry
spilled upon the pages like so many gems from a treasure chest-glittering in their own right yet swamped
by dazzling company. Though he stood motionless,
fixed fast in the candle’s flickering light, his pulse
increased and the room warmed.

“The little minx-” he muttered and spared one
glance at the author, who slept blissfully on.

He held in his hands Henry Beecham, the work so
unquestionably the poet’s that Beecham might have
stamped his signature upon each page. Here was the
close attention of the naturalist, recording with an artist’s eye the finest raptures of the seasons and the
senses. Here was the reflective observer: in spirit with
friendship, death, liberty-and love. As with anything
Richard had ever read of Beecham’s, the words mirrored his own memories and thoughts had he been gifted enough to express them so.

Here too, were a few thumbnail sketches, of flowers,
a squirrel, a peddler’s cart. One of Jeremy granted him
a butterfly’s wings. A few small, strong lines rendered
Archers’s distinctive facade.

There were no references to Richard Marksley.

With growing tension he skimmed the pages, identifying the first stirrings of a poem The Tantalus had
recently published, noting the dearth of entries for
much of the past few weeks, following with fascination
how the latest passionate poem had reached fruition.
She had taken such care with her script in anything she
had sent to him, but she could hide nothing here.
Beecham’s voice seemed to speak aloud in the quiet
predawn darkness.

Why had she not told him? Revealed herself to him
at once? Saved herself from his initial disdain, this
rudely abrupt marriage-from him?

Hallie Ashton, Henry Beecham, could only feel
trapped by all of this. Richard would have sacrificed
much to spare her, to free her from her boorish uncle.
He would have paid out a small fortune, even mortgaged Penham, to send her far from any distress.

As his fingers trembled over the pages, three letters
fell out upon the floor: two from Jeremy and one of his own. He quickly scanned them, then placed them back
in the book. His disappointment was severe; in Jeremy,
who had not trusted their friendship; in George
Partridge, who had maintained his stoic silence, even
yesterday, in the face of all attempts to elicit more from
him as `Beecham;’ and in himself, for believing that he
and a faceless poet had established a rapport. Why had
he not been privy to the secret she shared with Jeremy
and George? Perhaps it was understandable that they
had remained mum with him; they had respected her
wishes, the wishes of an orphaned young woman with
little protection and no independent means. But surely
he had earned her trust as well.

Given the volume’s revelations, his own last letter
struck him as naive and misguided. Henry Beecham,
Hallie Ashton, had simply used him. What did she care
for loyalty or sentiment? She did not need encouragement. She had even pulled Jeremy and George into her
elaborately constructed web, all to obtain the payments
from The Tantalus.

He glanced at Hallie’s face as he quietly replaced the
journal by her bedside. Then, he crossed purposefully
to the small desk in her room and searched it. In one of
the neatly organized drawers he found a wad of ten
pound notes. He could only assume she had troubled to
obtain it now in order to flee, to flee him. But he was not
such a monster! He left the bills in their hiding place,
then returned to stand by the window. He reflected
moodily on his wife’s secret, even as his gaze sought
her face anxiously and often.

He should have known her immediately. He should
have recognized in her that same rare quality to which
he had responded in Henry Beecham, that quality that
must have been her soul. He should have recognized
her poet’s voice. Indeed, he had recognized her voice
and been enchanted each time she revealed it.

But there was that face. And that decidedly feminine
shape. He glanced again at her sleeping form. He could
not have reasonably ignored what she could not hide.

Certain mysteries still puzzled him. That last poem
had not been the careless jotting of a moment; she had
labored over it. The timing led him to think she actually might have cared for Reggie, that those elated,
strangely poignant lines were a final dedication to lost
love. That thought was troubling enough-so was the
possibility that her sense of loss was for Jeremy. She
clearly had the warmest sentiments for him, and he for
her, else why would he have gone haring off after
George during the height of hunting season? Jeremy
had been shocked by their speedy marriage. Perhaps
the two of them had understood each other too late, else
they might have been long gone by now. Yet the dedicated effort to collect Beecham’s funds was baffling;
Jeremy was one of the wealthiest of the wealthy.

There was a very real likelihood of someone else,
someone she had kept as hidden from him and from her
uncle as she had hidden her own poetic life. He would
not have believed such deception possible-had she
not proved it.

He frowned as he watched a soft, gray light fill the courtyard below, a promising gray like his wife’s beautiful eyes. He was amazed she had managed to look at
him, to speak to him all these weeks! No woman could
be trusted. How artful she had been, even in pseudonym: Harriet Ashton … Henry Beecham. Harvey
Oakleigh, he embellished silently, Hayes Birchmere, or
perhaps even Horatio Larchmont.

The smile came unbidden, forcing him to acknowledge his reluctant respect for her. She had played a
clever game, right under his far too superior nose.
Would he not have attempted as much, had his talent
been as great, had the constraints of family and position
proved as severe? In all honesty, she had, as Henry
Beecham, given him months of pleasure. In the person
of Hallie Ashton, she had tantalized him daily. He had
admitted as much when he had pressed ahead with marriage. He had wanted her and had known he wanted her.
He had taken what he wanted.

Yet he could not keep her-that was without question. Henry Beecham’s spirit was not one to be imprisoned. And she was in love. The poem had said as much.
Though a fierce jealousy pierced him, he knew he must
release her. But he would see her safe; she would not be
running off alone in the middle of the night.

His gaze traced the smooth curve of her forehead,
one delicately arched brow, the full, gently parted lips.
She enchanted him. He adored her. Yet, though he
loved the woman and the poet, his honor demanded
some small recompense. He prayed that she would
wake, that those wide eyes would meet his again in full awareness. Only then would he apply her own artful
methods, to compel her to explain.

Hallie woke to gaze blankly at Marksley, standing
near the foot of her bed, just where the duvet edged the
darkness. He faced the window, and the faintest watery
light distinguished his profile. His jaw was obstinately
set, as though he were angry.

She tried to say his name, but her voice rasped
painfully in her dry throat. Still he heard her, for he
instantly turned. He poured her a glass of water before
coming to sit on the side of the bed.